The Dark Days Pact

  Delia nodded. ‘Are you nervous about meeting him?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Helen lied as they entered the long, noisy salon.

  They both paused on the threshold, taking in the sea of red uniforms interspersed with pale gowns and the dark jackets of non-military men. At least a hundred candles burned in white porcelain candelabra, their light reflected in large mirrors that doubled the sense of how many people milled in the room. The stink of beeswax and smoke, perfumes and heated bodies brought a rise of tears to Helen’s eyes, her Reclaimer sense of smell momentarily overwhelmed. A group of musicians sat at the far end, waiting to play, the flautist in their midst trilling a soft sweet song that soared above the thrum of conversation.

  A familiar stooped figure and sour face caught Helen’s eye. Oh, no, Mr Pike. He was talking to a group of gentlemen, supercilious smile in place. He had not seen her, but she would wager he knew she would be attending tonight. At some stage he would come looking for a report about Lowry. She must warn Mr Hammond. Another search of the room proved fruitless. Mr Hammond was not yet amongst the throng.

  ‘Delicious, isn’t it?’ Pug said, bustling up to them. She flicked open her brisé fan with a click and hid her mouth behind the ivory span. ‘So many handsome officers, and far more of them than ladies, for you cannot ask only some of the men from the barracks and not the others. Mama has released me from greeting the arrivals to start the dancing.’ She leaned closer to Helen, her white satin-clad décolletage drawing a passing gentleman’s gaze. ‘I do like your new coiffure,’ she whispered. ‘Very queenly.’

  Helen touched her carefully curled crop, threaded with a pale green riband that matched her muslin gown. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I have something to confess.’ Pug raised the fan to conceal both their faces, her protuberant eyes contrite. ‘I meant to warn you before tonight, but with all the preparations I forgot. The Duke of Selburn is here. He is in the card room across the landing.’

  Involuntarily, Helen looked over her shoulder. She could not see him of course, but just knowing he was there sent a frisson of panic down her spine. There could be no doubt that he would at some stage seek her out, and since the goal of the evening was for her and Lord Carlston to meet with the Comte, the Duke would most likely find her at Lord Carlston’s side. Helen closed her eyes for a moment, seeing in her mind all too clearly the moment at her own ball when the two men had clashed, snarling at each other like wolves.

  ‘We do not know His Grace very well,’ Pug continued, ‘but he acknowledged us in Edward Street and stopped to converse. He has a house on the Steine, you know. He made it so clear he wished to attend tonight that Mama invited him there and then. Such a coup for her, you see. I could hardly stop her, could I?’

  ‘I understand,’ Helen murmured, privately consigning Lady Dunwick to the devil. ‘Tell me, has Lord Carlston arrived?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Pug said. ‘He is over there, by the front window.’

  Helen found him immediately. He stood a head’s height above most of the other men and was also set apart by the close cut of his dark hair amidst all the more fashionably dishevelled styles. He must have felt her gaze for he looked around and gave a small nod, warmth springing to his eyes. Helen looked away lest he see her gratification. There, self-control.

  ‘Mama told me about the old friction between His Grace and Lord Carlston over poor Lady Elise,’ Pug said cheerfully. ‘I think Mama hopes for some of their fireworks to liven up the party. It is so hard to make a memorable evening these days.’ She cupped Helen’s elbow. ‘Come, I’ll call the first dance. You both,’ her glance took in Delia, ‘will be inundated with dance requests. Just you see.’

  And so it transpired. Helen and Delia were secured for the first set by two young officers from the 10th amidst many offers from their comrades. Helen’s partner was a dark-skinned young man by the name of Nesbitt whose English relatives, Helen gathered from his conversation, had secured him his commission as a Cornet despite his maternal Indian connections. He proved to be an excellent dancer and a charming companion with a ready flow of amusing anecdotes about his childhood in India and life in the Hussars. Helen, however, saw the habitual watchfulness behind his smiling demeanour. It must be very difficult, she thought, to be one of the few coloured men in the officer ranks. Even as they danced, there were some side-glances that were not entirely friendly. Ignoring them, Helen focused all her energies upon her partner and the figures, finding some respite from her worries in the felicity of motion.

  As the second dance, a robust reel, drew to an end, Helen caught a signal from Lord Carlston, who was watching from the edge of the dance floor: a tilt of his head towards the door. She curtseyed to Cornet Nesbitt and, with a warm smile of farewell, turned her attention to the elderly couple who stood at the entrance. This, then, had to be the Comte and Comtesse d’Antraigues.

  The Comte surveyed the room through a gold quizzing glass held up to his eye by an elegant hand. His superbly tailored blue jacket made the most of his tall build, and the crisp cravat between his stiffened shirt points was expertly arranged in the fiendishly difficult Waterfall, the same style that his lordship favoured. The Comte’s expression was one of delight, his small mobile mouth curled into an attractive smile. He had to be near sixty, Helen estimated, but had the straight bearing of someone half his age, and would be called a fine-looking man in any company. The benefits, perhaps, of leaching the life energy from those around him.

  The Comtesse had not fared quite so well, but then she was not a Deceiver. She still had the remnants of what must have been a ferocious beauty, enhanced now with yellow hair dye and artful cosmetics. The fire in her eyes, however, was in no way diminished, nor was her commanding manner.

  ‘J’ai besoin d’un peu de champagne, Louis,’ she said, her trained opera voice penetrating the hum of the crowded room.

  The Comte waved over one of the footmen and procured the required glass, earning a brilliant smile from his wife that hinted at her famous passion.

  ‘She prefers to speak French,’ Lord Carlston said quietly. Helen jumped; she had been concentrating so hard upon the d’Antraigues that she had not noticed his approach. ‘He is reasonably fluent in English, but will insist upon conversing with us in French to ensure he is at no disadvantage.’

  ‘Are you asking if my French is up to the task?’

  ‘I have no doubt that you are fluent, Lady Helen, but this will be a serpentine conversation and Monsieur Le Comte is an erudite creature. One of the more refined Hedon Deceivers.’

  He held his touch watch cupped in his gloved palm. Did he have it out as a weapon or a lens?

  ‘I shall be quite able to follow,’ she answered in French. ‘I may have had a female’s education, but it was a good one. I can also speak Italian and read Latin.’

  ‘Bene,’ his lordship said.

  ‘Più che buona.’ She turned her attention back to the Comte and Comtesse, but knew he had appreciated the pert reply. ‘Do we go to the Comte now?’

  ‘No. He is most solicitous of Madame’s comfort and will see her settled with some admirers before he turns his attention elsewhere. But he has seen me and understands that I wish to speak to him.’

  Helen looked down at his touch watch. ‘Has he glutted?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Skimming then?’

  Carlston repressed a smile, but his eyes were alight with it. ‘Monsieur Le Comte would never be so gauche as to skim a friend’s gathering.’

  ‘Yes, of course, how gauche,’ Helen said, meeting his silent amusement.

  It was such moments as these — the warm sense of camaraderie and collusion — that made her so weak-willed. Not to mention those other, warmer moments that lit such a fire within her body. She forced herself to look away from a curve of dark hair that refused to sit neatly over the scar that ran from his temple to sideburn, and clenched her fingers around her fan to stop the mad impulse to smooth it down.

  ‘Are there any other Deceiv
ers here?’ she asked.

  ‘One. That woman in ill-advised pea green near the orchestra. Mrs Carrington-Hurst.’

  Smiling at the acerbic description, Helen located the Deceiver: a short blonde with a rather prunish face. She was watching them warily.

  ‘She is a Hedon like the Comte. As you see, she is aware of us and will no doubt make her adieu to Lady Dunwick before long.’ He touched her elbow. ‘Half an hour, meet back here. We will make our compliments to the Comte.’

  She watched him move into the crowd, nodding now and then to an acquaintance. To the casual eye he looked as self-possessed and vital as ever, but Helen saw the hidden exhaustion that dragged at his smooth walk and the strange taut energy deep within him. He had not recovered as well as he claimed.

  ‘I am ravenous,’ Pug said, arriving at her side, fan waving vigorously. ‘Come, let us get a bite to eat and a drink before the next set. Dear Mama is keeping a cold supper table throughout the evening. Some of the army men will have to leave before the hot supper and she could not bear to think they would miss out entirely.’

  ‘Wait.’ Helen scanned the room for Delia. ‘I must find —’

  ‘Miss Cransdon?’ Pug snapped her fan closed and pointed it across the room. ‘She is over there.’

  Sure enough, Delia stood surrounded by three young officers, the small group laughing at some quip she had made. Her cheeks were pink from the heat of the room, a delicate rose upon the smooth alabaster of her skin, and her hurriedly altered cream gown made the most of her new silhouette. She looked like a slender lily set against the crimson backdrop of the men’s uniforms.

  ‘Miss Cransdon seems to have changed a lot since the,’ Pug dropped her voice, ‘scandal. She has certainly found the way to be fascinating.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Taking Helen’s gloved hand, Pug led her towards the door. ‘She has the irresistible aura of scandal around her.’ A tilt of her head directed Helen’s attention to an emaciated, hawk-nosed woman in purple who seemed to be watching Delia with some kind of malicious delight. ‘That is Mama’s best friend, Mrs Albridge, a nasty cat of a woman. One of the biggest gossips in England. She has been busily reminding everyone of your friend’s disgrace — how she eloped and was never married — and so now the men think she is …’ Pug let the sentence hang.

  ‘She is not!’ Helen protested.

  ‘It does not matter if she is or she isn’t,’ Pug said, linking her arm through Helen’s. ‘Anyway, you and Lady Margaret have lent her the protection of your good names, and so she has moved from scandalous to fascinating.’ Pug surveyed Delia for a moment, then sighed. ‘She certainly looks fascinating. I wonder how she lost all that weight so quickly. Do you think it was the vinegar diet?’

  ‘I think it was all the pain and anguish,’ Helen said dryly.

  ‘Well, that is not a route I’d wish to take, even for such a figure,’ Pug said. ‘I would much rather be comfortable and eat what I like.’

  On that synchronous note, they reached the refreshment room. A large table ran down the centre filled with platters of cold delights for the army gentlemen or, indeed, anyone else who could not wait for the hot supper at midnight: jellies, tarts, carved meats, cheesecakes, nuts, meringues, and even a churn of ice cream. A huge silver epergne in the shape of a cornucopia stood in the middle of it all, overflowing with strawberries, nectarines, grapes and three costly pineapples, one already cut into bite-sized pieces for the delectation of the guests. Two footmen in blue and silver livery stood in attendance; one in charge of a tea service set upon a smaller table, and the other ready to help serve from the table. Yet underneath all the delicious smells, Helen could detect something tainted. She wrinkled her nose. Yes, something was definitely well into decay. She glanced at Pug; her friend did not seem to have noticed.

  A few people were circling the largesse with plates in hand. One lone lady, in a slightly outmoded lavender gown, sat on the edge of a chair against the far wall, a glass of lemonade clasped in her hand. She did not look at all well; pasty skin, cracked lips, and deep lines of suffering etched across her forehead and between her brows. Even so, there was a sweetness about her heart-shaped face and large eyes, and a dignity in the straightness of her back.

  Lady Dunwick swept into the room and cast a critical eye over the table. Her attention paused for a moment on the wan lady, then came to rest upon her daughter. ‘Ah, there you are.’ She waved them both over, the two heavy gold Egyptian bracelets about her wrist clinking together. ‘I am glad to have found you, Elizabeth. And you, Lady Helen.’ She lowered her voice, addressing her daughter. ‘Will you do me a favour, my dear? That lady over there is Mrs Pike, the wife of the Second Secretary at the Home Office. She knows no one and I fear she is not enjoying herself. Will you talk to her for a while? It will, I think, help Papa.’

  That was Pike’s wife? Helen looked at the woman again. So Pike banned love, yet was married himself?

  Lady Dunwick lowered her voice even further. ‘We had to invite her and her husband. They are not in our circle, of course — their lodgings are at the far end of Edward Street — but he has the ear of Lord Sidmouth, and now that the new Cabinet has been named, that is quite useful. Lady Helen, I would not presume to impose the acquaintance upon you. I am sure Elizabeth will not be long. Let me find an officer to escort you back to the salon.’

  She looked around the room as if searching for a lurking redcoat.

  ‘That is not necessary, Lady Dunwick,’ Helen said quickly. She was not going to pass up the chance to meet Pike’s wife. ‘I have no objection to making the lady’s acquaintance.’

  ‘That is most gracious of you, my dear. Come then.’

  They skirted the table — one of the meat dishes was definitely rancid — and advanced upon the little lady, who, seeing them approach, rose from her seat.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Pike,’ Lady Dunwick said warmly. ‘Allow me to present you to my daughter, the Lady Elizabeth Brompton, and her friend, the Lady Helen Wrexhall.’

  Mrs Pike curtseyed. ‘Honoured,’ she murmured.

  The smell was stronger around the woman, Helen noticed.

  ‘Well, I shall leave you to converse,’ Lady Dunwick announced, and with a satisfied nod she abandoned them, bracelets click-clacking as she hurried from the room.

  ‘Are you enjoying Brighton, Mrs Pike?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered.

  Pug smiled. ‘Have you seen much of the town?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It seemed Mrs Pike was not a woman inclined to chatter.

  ‘Are you here for the Season or for your health?’ Pug tried.

  ‘My health.’ Mrs Pike passed the lemonade glass from one slender hand to the other. ‘My husband insists I come every year. The sea water is very beneficial.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pug said, seizing upon the subject. ‘Lady Helen is here for her health as well.’

  ‘You are?’ Mrs Pike asked, a spark of interest entering her pretty hazel eyes. ‘Have you found much relief from the water?’

  ‘I find it very invigorating,’ Helen said. ‘Have you found some relief?’

  Mrs Pike wet her cracked lips. ‘My ailment is long-standing, I’m afraid, but I do find that I am a little improved after a sojourn here.’

  Long-standing. Was she consumptive? But she did not cough. Perhaps a canker in her breast? Helen had seen similar symptoms in one of the maids at her uncle’s estate. A startling realisation dawned: the rancid smell in the room was Mrs Pike. Good Lord, Helen thought, I can smell disease! Was this another Reclaimer talent?

  ‘I am glad to hear you are improved,’ Pug said bracingly. ‘If you will excuse me, I must return to the salon to call the next dance.’ She glanced at Helen pointedly. ‘I believe you are promised for the next set as well?’

  Helen was not promised, purposely so, but Pug clearly thought her in need of deliverance from Mrs Pike. She was quite wrong.

  ‘Thank you for the reminder,’ she said. ‘I will b
e in directly.’

  ‘Of course.’ With a nod to them both, Pug made her exit.

  ‘I am acquainted with your husband,’ Helen said.

  ‘Oh, really?’ Mrs Pike smiled, the expression taking years from her worn face. She could be no more than five years older than Helen herself. ‘He is Second Secretary, you know,’ she added. ‘And a most ardent servant of the country.’

  Clearly proud of her husband, but did she know of the Dark Days Club?

  ‘Are you well-acquainted with his duties?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Oh, no. I am afraid I am not interested in politics, and my husband does not want me bothered with his worries. He is such a good man. So careful of my health.’ Suddenly the smile upon her face deepened into delight. ‘Ignatious!’

  Helen turned. Pike stood in the doorway, his face rigid. He forced himself to smile as he crossed the room to them. ‘Lady Helen.’ He bowed, his cold eyes wary.

  Helen inclined her head. ‘Mr Pike. I am delighted to meet your wife.’

  ‘Lady Helen is here for her health as well, Ignatious.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He smiled at his wife; the first time Helen had seen anything approaching warmth in the man. ‘I fear that you have overtaxed your strength, Isabella. It is time we departed.’

  She nodded. ‘You are quite right. I will get my shawl.’ She turned to Helen and made an elegant curtsey. ‘It has been an honour to make your acquaintance.’

  Pike touched his wife’s shoulder; an unconscious, protective gesture. ‘I will join you directly, downstairs.’

  ‘Of course.’

  They both watched her deposit her glass with the footman and depart the room.

  ‘Your wife is charming,’ Helen said.

  Pike crossed his arms. ‘Have you made contact with Lowry?’

  Helen closed her hand around her fan. ‘Yes.’

  Pike watched an army man pause in the doorway, calling jovially to a comrade to come view the provisions.

  ‘We cannot talk in this room,’ he said. ‘There is a ladies’ parlour on the next floor, directly to the left of the staircase. Wait a minute and then make your way there. Unobtrusively.’